I Painted My Own Funeral

Summary

This was the eighteenth time Virginia had brought her latest distraction home, demanding I paint them in the heat of their intimacy.

Everyone in the room expected a scene. They wanted tears, broken glass, a husband driven mad by humiliation.

Instead, I sat before the canvas, listening to their hushed, breathless giggles, and finished the piece without a single tremor in my hand.

Wyatt, one of Virginia’s sycophants, let out a dry, mocking chuckle. "Come on, Virginia. Your husband has the patience of a saint. Most men would have thrown us out by now."